


Unmarked Videotape, OR Fiddleford's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by gerbilfluff



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Body Expansion, Body Horror, Masturbation, Other, Oviposition, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerbilfluff/pseuds/gerbilfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ahem. This is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and I’m about to discover the reproductive cycle of Experiment 210, a.k.a. the Shapeshifter." He smiled to the camera in a way that could only be described as ‘nerdily,’ adjusting his glasses on his nose. "Wish me luck."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmarked Videotape, OR Fiddleford's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this fic contains a rape scenario, as well as body horror elements, a bit of belly expansion kink, and oviposition kink like whoa.
> 
> If you’re not legally of-age to read, or are not emotionally okay with, stuff like noncon fantasies, Lovecraftian body modification, and/or eggs pumping into a guy through his ass, that is 100% totally fine. Hit the Back button and try something else, no harm done. Big ol’ Internet out there to explore.
> 
> Now, for you fellow freaks who LIKE the idea of a fictional scientist getting his guts plumped up with monster spawn ‘till he’s screaming for mercy— boy oh boy, is today your lucky day. Enjoy! :3
> 
> Oh, and one last thing: hope you’ve heard of prettyinpwn’s Stan Twin theory (go ahead and Google it, I can wait), ‘cause this fic’s based on the assumption that Stanford exists and Fiddleford studied/hunted monsters with Stanley and Stanford back in the Eighties. Many thanks to hereissomething on Tumblr for art inspiration and their headcanon for Mrs. McGucket, as well as nuttersincorporated for the idea of Stan having “nerd” as a term of endearment.
> 
> Yadda yadda, I know, right? GET TO THE EGG PORN ALREADY!

Unmarked Videotape, OR Fiddleford’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day  
by Apricot the Gerbil

 

"Fiddleford? It’s Stanford!" The voice sounded panicked. "We’re in big trouble back here!"

With a roll of his eyes, the scientist continued to jot down readings from the bunker’s decontamination shower tanks.

"Nerd! You gotta help us!" came Stanley’s gravelly voice. "I don’t know what happened, but come quick, the place is gonna go sky-high any minute—"

"You don’t even sound like them," Fiddleford called out. "I know it’s you, 210. What do you want?"

There was a pause… before the creature in the next room, the Shapeshifter, croaked, “I need to see someone. Quickly! It’s a matter of life and—”

"Life and death, right, right," Fiddleford said with a sigh. "You’re not getting out, you know. I only have to take these readings and feed you for the night, and that’s ALL."

"I’m not trying to escape," rasped the Shapeshifter, its voice admittedly sounding quieter than usual. Brittle, even. "Please."

Fiddleford frowned, making a point to read the last two tanks as slowly as possible before clacking his pen to rest atop his clipboard and hunkering down through the narrow vault passageway to the room with the Shapeshifter’s holding cell.

His eyes widened to see the creature’s state. Where it lay huddled in the corner of its cage, its normally moist, cave-pale skin was crabbed over with dry patches. It heaved for every breath, sounding absolutely miserable.

"Oh my word…!" Fiddleford murmured under his breath. His hand went for the key in his lab coat pocket instantly, shoving it in the lock of the cage and springing past the open door, only doubling back to lock it behind himself after a moment’s thought. "What’s the matter?" he asked it, approaching carefully. "Are you sick?"

"It’s… my first clutch…" the Shifter rasped, its gnarl of spindly limbs sagging from its trunk like soggy white noodles against the cage floor. "Coming, quickly. Too quickly. I need help… building a nest…"

"Clutch…? You mean eggs?" said Fiddleford, eyebrows raising against his shaggy brown hair. "You’re a _female?”_

The creature growled, curling inward against itself in frustration. “We _all_ lay eggs, you dolt!”

"Oh, gosh. This is big!" Fiddleford said, half to himself. He swept his bangs to the side. Worried his fingers against his clipboard. His eyes darted to and fro, to the cage door and back. "What do I…? Should I go get the Pines boys? Stanford’ll want to know right away!"

"No time," the Shifter wheezed. It blinked watery red eyes, hearing the creak of the cage door opening and closing. "Wha— where are you going?!"

"Be right back!" called Fiddleford. He returned through the vault door minutes later with a tripod under one arm, a videocamera in his other hand.

"You’re filming this?" the creature said, voice flat with disapproval.

"Believe me, Stanford’d have my head if I didn’t," said Fiddleford, setting up the tripod to point his camera at the cage. He pressed a button on the side of the videocamera, clearing his throat before standing in front of the lens’ watchful gaze.

"Ahem. This is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and I’m about to discover the reproductive cycle of Experiment 210, a.k.a. the Shapeshifter." He smiled to the camera in a way that could only be described as ‘nerdily,’ adjusting his glasses on his nose. "Wish me luck."

He unlocked the cage door and ventured inside, locking it once more behind him. He moved carefully towards the beast, speaking loud and clear: “Subject is in a weakened state before laying its eggs… It claims this is its first clutch. Subject is also showing signs of pain.” Fiddleford leaned over the Shifter’s prone form. “Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?”

The creature gave a pleased sigh. “Oh, McGucket. You’ve already done all you can do coming down here alone.”

The scientist drew back at this. “What do you mean?” he asked, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

The wheeze was gone from the Shapeshifter’s voice as it answered, “Honestly. Do you think I could overpower either of the tall ones in a match of sheer brawn? Whereas _you_ …” It flung its limbs to ensnare Fiddleford as he made a mad dash for the door. “Are not only the smallest, but by _far_ the most gullible.”

"Y-you won’t get away with this! I swear, you’ll— you’ll—" the scientist stammered, rolling up his suit-shirt cuffs to brandish his fists as threateningly as he could. Which, he knew full well, wasn’t much.

"I already have," were the last gloating words Fiddleford heard before he was flung headfirst against the bars.

Then, there was only darkness.

———

When he regained consciousness, Fiddleford was first aware of the rope around his wrists.

"Wha—?! How did you—" he began, tugging his arms where they’d been tied to the cage bars, unable to budge. He was stuck on his knees, the cage’s steel floor cool against his bare legs.

"Scout manual," the Shifter replied casually, twanging at the rope to double-check its tautness. "Though I should note, it’s much harder to tie knots with only two fingers." A claw of an arm stroked down Fiddleford’s cheek, splitting into a waggling ball of fingers with random fingernail flecks. The Shapeshifter chuckled as Fiddleford drew back from it in mute horror. "Good thing I can always make more."

"Is that my _tie?”_ Fiddleford remarked, squinting at the hints of brown fabric in the ropework before demanding, “H-how could you possibly know how to do that?” He tried to seem unfazed, even as the knots binding his hands twitched and quaked. “We took away all your books!”

"Ah, yes… It would’ve been in my first larval stage, wouldn’t it? When you began to have… _concerns.”_ The Shapeshifter’s toothy maw wrinkled to a smile. “I don’t believe any of you realized I’d already learned to read before then.”

Fiddleford shook his head, scowling. “Fine. Fair enough. But _why did you take my clothes?”_ he asked, looking at where he’d been stripped from the waist down. Only his socks and garters remained.

"I said I needed help with making a nest for my first clutch, didn’t I? I wasn’t lying." Slimy limbs glided earthworm-like under the tails of his open dress shirt, trailing along the scientist’s bare back, leaving lines of ooze in their wake. "Your body will serve nicely."

"M-my what?!" said Fiddleford, struggling against the ropes as he noticed one of the Shifter’s long, spindly legs snaking up to his eye level— a leg that ended in a pulsing, fleshy gash of an opening.

"Hm. Far too many teeth," murmured the Shifter, as the "leg" prodded between the scientist’s whimpering lips, then darted up to regard his head. "No, no. Eyes are in the way…" The limb dipped between Fiddleford’s own legs, nudging a limp prick ringed with dusky pink foreskin. "Too thin," it sighed at his piss-slit.

He went stock-still with a yelp as the tendril nuzzled into the crevice of his ass. “Now _here’s_ a possibility,” he heard the creature declare, prodding the knobby end against his sphincter.  

"No. No you _can’t,_ please, no no nonoNO—” he begged, scooting his legs to the side in a futile attempt to wiggle away from the probe, knocking his glasses off-kilter. He felt a gout of cold, runny ooze spurt into his crack as it pressed inside…

"Please, don’t think of this as something unpleasant," the Shifter told him. "You’re the first-ever human to serve as an incubator for one of my kind! Isn’t that exciting?"

Fiddleford only wailed, feeling his asshole stretch to take what the Shapeshifter gave it— which, once inside, seemed to be only a mess of mystery glop, until he felt the first hard, small mass squeeze into him. He bucked there on the floor, screeching, as cluster upon cluster of eggs followed, slopping through the Shifter’s chute in a thick slurry of fluids, filling his most private of places from the bottom up.

"This is almost… _indescribably_ pleasurable for me,” the Shifter crooned over him, pushing free another fat gob of eggs and slime into Fiddleford’s depths. Its voice heavy, it continued, “I’d like it to be enjoyable for you as well. Tell me, who would bring you the most comfort?”

Fiddleford was too distracted by the feeling of another load squirting in to respond, so the Shifter tried some options on its own. “Would you prefer the one with glasses?” it prodded, swishing its face to Stanford’s. “Tall, dark and handsome?” beckoned the Baron Num Nums mascot. “Or the strong one?” said Stanley— to a scream from Fiddleford, as he opened his eyes to see the Pines brother’s head leering at him, still atop a tower of twitching, spidery limbs.

"Don’t just take their _faces!_ That’s disgusting!” Fiddleford yelled. He relaxed despite himself as the rest of Stanley’s body, white muscle shirt and all, seemed to swirl into being to cover him where he knelt. “Oh… Th-that’s… better, I gue—”

He trailed off in a squeal, as the chute now anchored from Stan’s crotch pumped a sticky knot of eggs past his ringpiece all at once. Fiddleford panted for breath, twisting against the ropes and Stanley’s massive form above him. “There’s too many…!” he pleaded. “I-I’m cramping up!”

"There, there," Stanley comforted him with the Shapeshifter’s voice, hugging his broad bulk against the littler man. He rubbed his hand along the curve of Fiddleford’s distended stomach, to a moan of discomfort from the scientist; it hung heavy and tight as a drum between the tatters of his open dress shirt, thanks to the onslaught of invaders. Another quiet squelch, and even more joined them; Fiddleford cried out in pain, as another cramp struck.

"That’s almost the lot of them," the Shifter-as-Stan purred to him, massaging dutifully away at his swollen belly. "You’re doing _so_ very well.”

Fiddleford gasped as another hand ran along his penis, which was quivering half-hard under his mound of a stomach, as confused as the rest of him by all that was going on.

"Would this give you some relief?" he heard. The hand— no, _hands_ , Fiddleford’s dazed mind corrected, as another joined in, and another— began to pet and stroke down the length of it with tender caresses that somehow seemed even more wrong than roughness, given the circumstances. “It’s really the least I can do for a host.”

Fiddleford’s head slumped in bright red embarrassment, but he pushed his aching prick and ballsack into the Shifter’s net of fingers with shaky, uneven rocks of his hips nevertheless. “That’s it…” the Shapeshifter told him, nuzzling young Stan’s forehead against the crook of his shoulder. “Take all the pleasure I can give you. After all, it won’t be long before the eggs start to grow.”

The scientist’s mouth went dry. “Before… they…?” he squeaked.

"Of course! Why else would they need a heat source?" said the creature brightly. "They won’t all make it, of course. Not even half. But given your size, you should last long enough for two or three to form a decent shell before you rupture."

 _"Nn—!!"_ was all Fiddleford could manage, as string after string of hot cum landed on the tangle of hands stroking away at his crotch. He panted, voice dwindling before he piped up, almost guiltily, “That wasn’t…! From the news, that was… You’ve got _very_ dexterous fingers…”

Stan’s body hugged him close. “And there we are! You’ve taken the whole clutch!” the Shifter said, reaching to give Fiddleford’s sticky rump a few pats of appreciation. The scientist only winced, squirming in Stanley’s grasp as he felt the bulbous tip of the egg chute dislodge itself and slither free.

Drooling cold slime from his poor, overwhelmed hole, Fiddleford slumped against the ropes, watching as Stan blurred to become the Shapeshifter’s blobby form once more. He scowled up at it, exhausted. “Anything else I should know?”

The Shifter gazed out past the cage bars. “The tape you set up to document this. It’s still recording.”

"…Of course it is," Fiddleford mumbled.

The both of them stiffened at the sound of the vault door turning. “Fids? You all right in there?” came Stanley’s familiar voice. “Been here an awful long time to just be feedin’ that thing…”

The scientist paused, his mouth open, ready to yell. He shrank against the ropes still binding him… stared down at his shredded clothes, his bloated body, coated inside and out in the Shapeshifter’s ooze— not to mention his own semen on the floor. Did he really want to be seen like _this?_

"Stan! Don’t let him trick you!" a second, fully-clothed Fiddleford shouted, jumping forward to rattle desperately at the bars of the cage. "There’s something wrong with the Shapeshifter! He’s got me trapped in here. Please, help!"

Stan stepped all the way through the vault door and raised what looked like a steel pipe in one hand warily. He took a few more steps towards the cage… his jaw dropping at the sight before him.

"Nerd! What’d he DO to you?!" he shouted to the body slumped and tied at the arms in the corner.

"What?!" cried the suited Fiddleford, drawing back, insulted. "What do you mean, what did HE do to—"

"Can it, freakazoid. You can’t pull off a Southern drawl to save your life," Stan said. He pointed the pipe at the second Fiddleford’s head. "I’m comin’ in to get the nerd. You make ONE MOVE to stop me, or slip outta here, and the next thing you turn into’s gonna have a split skull!"

The Shapeshifter reverted from the scientist to its natural form, its watery eyes wide and wary against Stan’s glare. “Noted,” it conceded, holding up its many limbs in surrender as the young man entered, cut the rope free with a pocket knife, and hoisted Fiddleford carefully in his broad arms.

"This ain’t over," Stan called to the creature as he locked the door shut. "You mess with my nerd, I’m gonna make sure you can’t _move_ in here without us knowin’ about it.”

Fiddleford stirred weakly. “Just… let’s get out of here,” he said, and buried his head against Stanley’s chest, feeling safe at last.

———

Stanford looked up from the latest issue of Cutting-Edge Commodores Monthly. Watched as his twin brother walked a shaken-looking Fiddleford in a bathrobe past the living room couch where he sat.

"Feeding the new guy didn’t go as planned?" he asked.

"Nope," Stanley said.

"Need any help?" Stanford’s voice called out to the pair on their way up the stairs.

"Laxatives are in the bathroom cupboard, right?"

"…Yes. Do I want to know?"

 _"NO,"_ Stanley and Fiddleford both called down.

"You got it," said Stanford, returning to his magazine.

———

_Weeks later… After the cryogenic tube was switched on…_

"Coming to bed, hun?"

Mrs. McGucket stood in the living room doorway, waiting for an answer, her nightrobe sash hanging loose at her hips.

The TV flickered dim light over Fiddleford there on the couch, as he reached for one last mouthful from the popcorn bowl in his lap. He called over the theramin music from the night’s sci-fi movie, “I’ll be there soon. Fifteen minutes?”

"Sure thing," his wife nodded, her dark curls swishing thick before her face. "See you in a few."

Fiddleford watched her leave. Waited, motionless against the flashing grays from the screen. Until he heard their bedroom door creak shut.

He set the popcorn bowl aside, hunkering down to the shelf of videotapes underneath the TV cabinet. With practiced ease, he grabbed one and slid it into the VCR slot. Sitting back on the couch, he made sure to grab the remote and turn down the volume as low as it would go.

Fast-forward. Play.

_"Don’t just take their FACES! That’s disgusting!" A flurry of motion. Stan’s body suddenly hugging him from behind. "Oh… Th-that’s… better, I gue—"_

Slowly, Fiddleford unzipped the fly to his trousers. His stub of a beginning erection was already bobbing from the Y-front of his briefs, ready for his hand to wrap around it and start stroking.

_"There, there." Stanley consoling him. That hand, massaging the plump curve of his belly, as another cry and hip-buck signaled his insides growing ever more maddeningly full._

With the volume this low, it might as well be Stan’s own voice.

_"You’re doing SO very well…"_

Fiddleford whimpered quietly from the back of his throat, hand still tugging away.

_"Will this give you some relief?"_

He could feel the ache building between his legs, unbothered by the sight of Stanley’s three arms curled over him on the screen.

_That’s it… Take all the pleasure I can give you.”_

Even with his other hand fully occupied, Fiddleford managed to hit the Rewind button.

_"That’s it…" The look on his own face. Head tipped back, totally gone, in a silent moan from the feeling._

Rewind.

_"That’s it…"_

He left it playing.

_"…for two or three to form a decent shell before you rupture."_

He stuffed the hand holding the remote into his mouth to the knuckles as he came— still shuffing his prick in his palm as he shot into his fist over and over, until cum was drizzling down the backs of his fingers.

The film kept rolling. There was the real Stan, running into view of the camera. Threatening his imposter with a pipe. Cutting him down. Taking him to safety. Back to a reality that made sense. Where Stan was just a colleague. A friend.

Fiddleford panted at the screen.

And hit Rewind.

 

_-fin-_


End file.
